


...Hang A Shining Star Upon The Highest Bough...

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: A Merry Little Christmas - A wwhiskeyandbloodd xmas special [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blasphemy, Body Worship, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Priest Kink, adoration, odalisque verse, vignettes of sex and violence verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:58:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2816306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“It dates only to the mid-18th century, but it is precariously close to the cliffs overlooking the North Sea, very near to the Highlands, and if the weather chooses to be clear for us, we might see Norway’s fjords across the water.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Will turns back to the church, stoic and beautiful and solitary, lights within despite the day still being young. An entirely unlikely place for Hannibal to choose to stay, and at the same time, so very much his own that Will could laugh for it, and does. He buries his face in the scarf wound loose around his neck and brings gloved hands to run through his hair.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Certainly worth coming for,” he comments.</i>
</p><p>Our wolves discover a new kink for Christmas, because what else is more fitting for them than that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	...Hang A Shining Star Upon The Highest Bough...

**Author's Note:**

> Based in the [Vignettes of Sex and Violence](http://archiveofourown.org/series/132567) verse, in no part in particular. Shockingly, you actually can stay in churches in Scotland, and it's amazing, and we both kind of really want to go... and we couldn't pass it up for our boys. Come on. Could _you_? ;)

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

It wasn’t the mystery of it - Will enjoyed that, even as Hannibal dragged Will from bed shortly after midnight without explanation beyond _get up now or I’ll leave you here_.

It wasn’t the flight - four hours cut down to just over three when Hannibal couldn’t be bothered to fly commercial.

It wasn’t even the train ride that followed, another six hours. In fact, that was a boon, and Will spent much of the ride with his face against the glass. Up from London through the great flat expanse of central England, past the lake district with its hills laid white with snow and sheep, further north still into Scotland. To Will’s brief dismay, they hadn’t lingered in Edinburgh longer than to change trains and press still further north, where the cities all fell away to tiny towns scarcely seen in the distance as the day grew long and shadows stretched across heath and forest.

No, it was perhaps Will’s own imagination getting the better of him, as he stirred, curled against the window to watch Hannibal instead of the ice-covered land around them, and imagined staying in a castle, in front of a fire, alone but for the ancient stones and each other.

“I am not,” Hannibal answers, tremendously pleased with himself and more so as Will’s brows draw in. “It dates only to the mid-18th century, but it is precariously close to the cliffs overlooking the North Sea, very near to the Highlands, and if the weather chooses to be clear for us, we might see Norway’s fjords across the water.”

Will turns back to the church, stoic and beautiful and solitary, lights within despite the day still being young. An entirely unlikely place for Hannibal to choose to stay, and at the same time, so very much his own that Will could laugh for it, and does. He buries his face in the scarf wound loose around his neck and brings gloved hands to run through his hair.

“Certainly worth coming for,” he comments, pleased, and considers Hannibal beside him. Not the country, this, where they can be as openly affectionate as Greece. He wonders how Hannibal had made the booking, for their room, how he had twisted it to allow the two of them to even share one. He hefts his bag up over his shoulder and enters the church before Hannibal does, murmuring about how in many people’s eyes they should burn up upon even setting a foot on the threshold.

Even without touching him, Will feels the laugh more than he hears it, grinning as he pulls his scarf down from his mouth and greets the young lady who offers to help them around.

It turns out, to Will’s genuine amusement, that the room is booked for a father and son, and that they are so sorry but the cot they had thought was available to unfold beside the small bed is, in fact, broken.

“We will do everything to find one for you for the evening, but unfortunately the rest of the rooms are entirely booked - it is a popular time of year for us.” 

Her accent curls and caresses Will in the best way, and he accepts the apology with a smile before following Hannibal to where they will be staying, biting back a grin as much as he can to not appear too enthusiastic about being here.

Though the room pales in comparison to the sprawling home to which they’ve become accustomed, it is warm and comfortable, with arched windows overlooking the snow-laden gardens and gothic stone walls of the courtyard, and cozy appointments inside. Hannibal’s fingers trace the dark wainscotting, glancing to the young woman who seems eager to hear his thoughts.

“Original?”

She agrees enthusiastically that in fact it is, and as Will drops his bags, Hannibal and their hostess exchange pleasantries - really, it’s no bother about the cot, they’re happy to make due and very glad to be here, yes, perhaps they will come down and enjoy dinner soon, no, there’s really nothing else, thank you sincerely.

Will takes his time unwinding the scarf as Hannibal closes the door behind her, offering a raised eyebrow as Hannibal turns back to him.

“You realize with this I will be sleeping on top of you,” he says, gesturing behind him towards the little bed.

“Because on days we spend at home you sleep on your own side of the bed like a passive spouse,” Hannibal replies, and Will grins. He can feel his heart hammer at the thought of being in Scotland, when only the night before they had been at home, in Greece. That they are staying in a church, of all places, together, over Christmas, that both have admitted to never particularly caring for.

“It’s beautiful here,” he admits, moving to stand in front of the window, tracing the glass with careful fingertips once his gloves have been set away into his pocket.

The glass is ridged and uneven beneath his fingers, the view of the garden obscured just a little by the rippled old glass, and for a long moment, Hannibal merely watches, as Will’s fingers find their way over it. Though Will’s back is to him, he knows the boy’s eyes are wide, cheeks ruddy from the wind and pleasure both. He imagines Will as he once might have been here, a monk amongst his countless books, a young priest offering far more temptation than salvation to his parishioners.

But always - unalterably - beautiful, in every way.

Finally, slowly, Hannibal goes to him, and sinks an arm around Will’s waist. His other hand lifts to rest over the boy’s own, and follow his movements where he traces spirals through the condensation that builds on the glass.

“We will several days here,” Hannibal tells him, turning to kiss the hair that curls soft along Will’s neck. “And tour the Highlands after, up to the Orkney Islands if the weather is kind to us.” Drawing the backs of his fingers down Will’s cheek, he tilts his head aside with a nuzzle and murmurs, “You will be wind-reddened and feral by the time we are finished.”

Will grins, allowing the warm blush over his nose and cheeks as he closes his eyes to the softness offered. He curls one hand over Hannibal’s where it rests against his stomach and he threads his fingers with the older man’s.

“Thank you for taking me this time,” he says, genuine pleasure in the words, after so long being left for Hannibal’s whims to come and go as he pleased or as the restlessness took him. In truth, he is tired, but not for the life of him would he curl up to sleep when there is this to see, and Hannibal against him with soft lips and hot breath promising the world.

He arches, just enough to be a tease, and pulls away gently to pull off his jacket and seek a sweater instead, something less cumbersome to explore in before they return to bed as evening falls properly.

“Everything echoes,” Will notes, amused, as he pulls his sleeves up over his fingers and adjusts the black material over himself. “How are a father and son supposed to sleep in peace with such whispers?”

Hannibal spares the boy a wry look, but follows his lead to remove his long-worn coat and seek out something nicer. “Perhaps we shall not,” he suggests, dark eyes lifting to take in the bare stretch of skin when Will stretches his arms above his head. “Or, we might contribute to the whispers ourselves, though I would be hard-pressed to imagine you capable of such discretion.”

There is a gentle challenge to his words, and one that draws a thoughtful smile from Will as he follows the wainscotting around the room, the arched doorways, a childish and - to Hannibal’s passing attention - particularly sweet exploration as Hannibal himself hangs out his clothing and dresses for dinner.

Though the once-church is booked up, it is a small affair and so the sitting room - where once were held holiday services, for hundreds of years - is wonderfully quiet. The fireplace snaps and pops with heat enough to fill the cold stone walls, hung with long garlands of evergreen and holly, threaded through with heather, ubiquitous and fragrant. Hannibal follows Will, now, down the winding stairs, allowing him to choose a seat, for now far out from the other patrons, well into their cups.

For the tasting, venison stew, spiced and rich, roasted root vegetables, bread and cranberry sauces, and an array of desserts - sweet black buns and shortbread, Christmas pudding and cloutie dumplings.

“I will share my scotch with you, when we are free from watchful eyes,” Hannibal murmurs to the boy, fingers brushing the small of his back with a particular thrill in doing so. That their kindly hosts view them as family, that they stand in what was once the home of God and commit such indiscretions… it is enough that Hannibal, now, carries in him a particular brightness of energy, delighted by their private blasphemies.

Will takes his time eating, enjoying the new flavors, the depth and warmth of them, years of tradition allowed to be enjoyed by anyone seeking. He keeps his eyes up to the vaulted ceiling, cold and stone and somehow entirely alive with shadows and memories. He tries to suppress a shiver as Hannibal touches him again, tells him that he will see Will upstairs if he wishes to spend more time here alone.

He does, but not long. He thanks the hostess for dinner and takes in the space with careful fingers and slow breaths. Stairs dipped in the middle where endless streams of people have come and gone, monks and worshipers, visitors and keepers. The place has history Will feels seep through his skin and it makes him smile.

By the time he gets back upstairs, his sleeves are rolled up, cheeks warm from climbing the stairs and exploring. They will, as well, during the day once both have slept, but now, he lets himself have those moments alone. He knocks - Hannibal has the only key - and finds himself pressing into Hannibal’s arms as soon as the door is closed, nuzzling against his neck with a sleepy smile.

Hannibal has managed a shower while the boy was away, to return to himself after the long trip from Greece. In snug shorts, towel still pressed against his hair to soak up the dampness from it, he loops an arm around Will’s shoulders and sighs, content, as little lips trace across his chest.

“Does it please you, spoiled boy?” he asks, surprisingly genuine as he does.

“Yes,” Will grins, brings his hands up to pull the towel from Hannibal’s hair and toss it aside, drawing fingers through it instead as he kisses him. “I had never thought to stay in a church in Scotland. Or anywhere.” He smiles, rubs his cheek against Hannibal’s. “Thank you for waking me at an ungodly hour and giving me _good_ news.”

The older man nearly purrs, a warm hum at the feel of Will’s gentle affections across his skin, and he offers a slight smile. “A better gift, I ventured, than more books for your shelves or trinkets to be discarded,” he responds, and before he moves more than the first bare twitches of muscle, Will sinks his arms around Hannibal’s neck, ready to be lifted. A look of amusement is shared before Hannibal follows through and scoops the boy against him, carting him towards the bed.

“Although,” he admits, “I have more books for you at home as well, in case you chose to sleep in rather than wake for me this morning.” A pause, and he sighs. “I suppose I shall have to burn them now.”

Sitting back on the edge of the bed, Hannibal spreads Will across his lap, before turning to pin the boy gently beneath him and bring their lips together. “A selfish gift, this,” admits Hannibal as their mouths meet again and again. “I was overcome with a savage need to see you set against the Highlands and the lochs, the heaths and fields, scarf across your mouth but baring your scarlet cheeks still to the wind and snow.”

Will laughs, a soft thing to match the murmurs echoing in the church beyond the door, feels his cheek blush warm at the words alone, at feeling Hannibal heavy and almost bare above him. He wriggles out of his sweater, out of the shirt beneath and curls his fingers over Hannibal’s back, down in a tickling cascade before drawing his hands back up leaving red marks with his nails against him.

“I enjoy you selfish,” Will admits, eyes hooded and dark, warm as his lips tilt in a smile before he bites the bottom one. His body already responds to this, acutely aware of when he is spread and touched, pinned and kissed, it drives pleasure through his very being, shivers up his spine and down it. He arches, head back and relishes the feeling of Hannibal’s lips against his throat.

“And blasphemous,” he whispers with another gentle laugh, catching Hannibal by the hair to tilt his head up again. “Finding us a room in a church, here, together. I love it.”

Arching as he is moved, Hannibal trains his eyes downward still, to watch the way Will’s teeth settle against his bottom lip, eyes dancing bright in the darkness, lit only by the light of the bathroom and those outside their window.

“I thought you might,” murmurs Hannibal, far too pleased with himself now, and with the thought of being here, together. “Though I admit a curiosity, in wishing to see if you might turn to salt or flame upon entering the chapel doors.”

Will twists his wrist just enough to tug and Hannibal’s teeth bare in a grin before he shakes himself loose of Will’s grip and brings their mouths eagerly together again. He turns their noses together, an affectionate nuzzle as he settles heavy between Will’s legs. “It is a more fitting place for us than one might expect,” Hannibal adds. “Where better to be when we are so intent on sin than the place that can wipe it clean from us?”

Will hums, apparent disbelief and disapproval of such a theory, but his smile, wicked and wide, speaks enough to the contrary. Will draws up his knees, delighting in feeling Hannibal's broad palms soothe over the worn denim, down his thighs, back up. The light, little as it is, catches against the damp strands of Hannibal’s hair, lightening it, making him look ethereal, almost saintly, and Will’s smile darkens further.

"Instant absolution," Will comments, straight faced, as Hannibal works the button and fly of his jeans, encourages him to tilt them up so he can pull the jeans from him, toss them to the floor, and catch Will’s ankle to gently kiss against it, up further to his calf, to the sensitive skin behind his knee, spreading his boy beneath him, both in nothing but their underwear now, and little there to stop their obvious pleasure from being known.

Will groans as Hannibal kisses against his inner thigh, strong and tanned now, from the Grecian sun, though still paler than Hannibal's skin.

"These walls have never seen the likes of us," Will sighs, eyes up to the stone, cool and silent and watching them as it had millions before them, throughout time.

“Worse, perhaps,” suggests Hannibal, though he seems to doubt his own words even as he says them. His smile widens at the thought and he rocks their bodies together to meet in another long kiss, humming as Will’s fingers skim elegantly across his face. “But,” Hannibal breathes as they part, “we shall give them something to remember.”

Not yet freeing the boy from his boxers, Hannibal presses a wide palm against the bulge of Will’s cock, pushing hard against him, providing a friction to Will to twist his hips against in a languid rocking motion. The soft material catches smooth between them, dampening where it brushes the tip of Will’s cock, and here Hannibal presses a little firmer, to catch Will’s length between his belly and Hannibal’s hand.

“To your side,” Hannibal tells Will, moving only as much distance away as necessary to allow Will room to stretch long, down to pointed toes, and roll slowly to turn his back to Hannibal, watching him over his bare, skinny shoulder.

“Lead me not into temptation,” intones Hannibal softly, “but deliver me from evil.”

Will is a wonder, wise beyond his years and possessed of a self-awareness that manifests in the effortless elegance where his fingers rest against his neck, tangled loosely in his curls - in the faint narrowing of his eyes and the resounding delight he allows to turn upward his flushed lips. Spreading a hand down his side, and back up against to circle to his chest, Hannibal settles behind the boy, sinking easily into him and twining their legs together.

Will arches, a pretty bend of his body as Hannibal’s hand seeks between his legs again, his lips behind Will’s ear. It is a familiar thing, to be this, to be touched and wanted and pressed to this way. Will draws his knee up, bends it outwards and finds a hum in his ear, chastising him to set it back as he had it.

It is a languid teasing, firm rubbing that sends Will’s blush further down his body, sends his backside up against Hannibal tighter to rub against him in turn there as well. It feels good, the delicious build up of pleasure as Will bites his lip and tries to keep his needy noises at bay as Hannibal relentlessly works him to full hardness within his underwear.

“Is this all you’ll do to me?” Will whispers, grin evident in his voice, eyes closed in his pleasure. He wants to be bared, to bend, to beg, on his knees in a place that deserves it, that demands it. He shivers when Hannibal turns his hand, rubs the head of his cock in just the right way for him to tense, relax, tense again. “Will you not see me bare?”

“I will feel you bare,” answers Hannibal, a warning snap just barely tangible beneath his words, enough to bring Will’s grin parting into a laugh, and Hannibal’s amusement into the corners of his eyes. “That will be enough.”

As if by example, Hannibal releases Will’s cock to lay trapped between the waistband of his underwear and the fine hair, now sticky, on his belly. Teasing fingertips trace the strong curve of Will’s thighs, until they part for him just enough that Hannibal can press hand between, through the leg of Will’s shorts, to skim teasing over his opening.

Each fanning of his fingers is met with a slow roll of hips where Hannibal’s erection digs against Will’s backside, the thick ridge of it grinding slowly into the cleft of Will’s ass despite the thin fabrics that keep them both wonderfully restrained.

Circling Will slowly, hardly touching enough to be felt at all, Hannibal hardly has to move for the degree to which Will squirms back against him, always seeking more, more, _more_. “Perhaps a confession, to earn your way to absolution,” Hannibal intones, raising his free hand to smooth Will’s hair back from his face and turn his boy’s face enough to bring their lips brushing together. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

Will shivers, something that takes his entire body and draws a shuddering sigh from him as he opens his eyes to regard Hannibal. A swallow, enough to work his throat, and Will smiles, cheeks flushed and lips parted. He arches his neck, seeks back against Hannibal’s hand again, one hand out before him to grip the sheets in a messy scrunch.

“I have too many sins to be heard by these walls,” Will whispers, rocks his hips and finds the fingers splayed against one curved cheek, squeezing in warning that Will cooperate, play along for a reward.

“Murder,” he sighs, biting his lip, letting it go, “frequent and cold-blooded. For the sheer joy of the slaughter, Father, no other reason at all.”

Hannibal allows the shiver to course roughly through him that Will’s words cause in him, breathless and so sweetly spoken. “A mortal sin,” he chastens the boy, holding his jaw in place, lifted beautifully back so that Will’s head rests against Hannibal’s shoulder. “God’s grace does not extend to those who have committed such foul deeds,” the older man warns, driving his hips against Will upon the last two words, as if to emphasize them.

“But,” he murmurs, “through repentance. Penance,” Hannibal sighs, pressing his fingertip just so inside of the squirming boy pressed against him, “may see even you redeemed in His eyes.”

Will shivers, grips the sheets tighter as he squirms against the finger in him, forward to get some friction on his cock, leaking and held bound within the elastic and soft cloth. He trembles, makes a soft noise he instantly swallows down again, exhaling quickly and starting again.

“I have had impure thoughts,” he breathes, “committed impure acts, with a man much older than I, much -” His breath hitches as Hannibal presses just a little further, allows Will to work himself back against his hand, arching and bending, presenting, even still clothed. “- much crueler in his lessons… than others I have known.”

He shivers, knows his blush has crept down his neck when Hannibal kisses it, leaves a wet mark that he sighs against and draws goosebumps over Will’s skin.

“I have offered myself to many, allowed them to penetrate and hurt me,” Will whispers, muscles tensing and relaxing as Hannibal presses further still, dry and deliberate. “Oh, Father, I enjoyed it…”

Another delicious shudder ripples down into Hannibal’s hips when Will purrs those words at him. “No shame for your sin,” snarls Hannibal, snatching Will by the hair to jerk his head into a deeper tilt, and arch his back further still as Will presses himself, still, against where Hannibal’s flushed cock presses thick against him. “No guilt, no remorse.”

“None,” laughs Will. He keeps his voice scarce above a whisper, restrains it to a whimper when Hannibal turns him to his belly and frees his finger from the boy, laying heavy atop him and working a hand again up the bottom of his shorts.

“Murder and prostitution,” growls Hannibal against him, a litany of the boy’s beautiful blasphemies. “Fornication. Adulation. Masturbation, I am certain, although I have forbidden it explicitly,” he adds in a rueful tone, before returning spit-damp fingers against Will’s opening and spreading him wide.

Will bites his cry into the pillow and trembles again, forcing himself to relax and feel Hannibal’s hands against him, within him. Something about this place, what they’re doing, deliberately, crudely, a blatant disrespect that sends Will’s skin tingling in pleasure, all his senses honed in on the man behind him and he moans, almost embarrassingly loudly despite the pillow between his teeth, when Hannibal bends low to murmur, “On your knees.”

Will squirms, trying to find enough to get his knees under him, enough that he can keep his face to the bed, his chest pressed to it as he lifts his hips, obedient, aching as he rocks back over and over against Hannibal’s hand, panting into the sheets in his pleasure.

“Forgive me,” he manages, soft, weak into the cool air before another gasp takes him and he buries his face in the sheets with a lilting little moan.

“Earn it,” Hannibal tells him, voice rough with cool disregard for Will’s aching little pleas. Strong fingers stroke down the boy’s coiling hips, sliding his shorts down just enough to bare him. Spreading him, Hannibal sighs hot against the boy’s reddened hole and sucks a cruelly long kiss against it, enough to send Will’s hands clenching tighter into the sheets, lips parted on a pleasure shocked to silence. The little whimper that aches from him is muffled where he presses his knuckles against his teeth and bites them, bending deeper into the bed to present himself higher still, for the taking.

And he is taken, held somewhere between penance and mercy, a steady rocking of hips to bring Hannibal deeper into the boy who curls and aches and stretches, dizzying to observe, beneath him. A steady pressure, Will’s hands curled white-knuckled against the sheets as he imagines, feeling himself stretch around the familiar girth inside of him, how many others have been within these walls doing just this.

His laugh is little but genuine, enough that despite himself Hannibal’s eyes narrow in pleasure, and he leans low to brush a kiss over Will’s cheek, beside the slender fingers held across his mouth to keep his voice muffled.

“Give thanks to the Lord,” Hannibal purrs against his ear, “for He is good.”

Will trembles, flushed and turned on and untouched, the words and the play pulling his senses out of orbit, twisting him in pleasure.

“For His mercy endures forever,” he breathes, Latin shaking but steady enough to understand. It earns a deep thrust, pulling Will’s lips open wider, brows higher and eyes closed tight. His thighs shake where they hold him up, bent over wantonly as Hannibal takes him, half-bared and entirely debauched. In a holy place before a holy day.

Selfish.

And Will could not want anything more.

“Please,” he begs, gasping as Hannibal continues the steady, deep fucking that Will has not only craved but earned, on his knees as he is. “Hannibal, please…”

“Latin,” hisses Hannibal, unrelenting as he drives slow and hard into his boy, bent and begging. “Pray, little wolf - pray for me.”

With a choked sob as Hannibal takes him in hand, Will prays. Latin falls from his scarlet lips as lovely as if it were his native tongue, as if his very soul was in eternal peril and the only one that might save it were the man now curved over him, consuming and smothering in his desires. Thumbing against the swollen head of his cock, Hannibal traces through the clear fluid that slicks it, tugging back the skin to bare sensitive skin to his unyielding touch, until the prayer begins to break into pleas, though the language remains as Hannibal demanded, ancient and obscene.

“Now,” Hannibal tells him suddenly, as his own release coils sharp within his belly. “Now, Will.”

Will whines high and loud, muffled by the pillow, and bends near-backwards as his release takes him, into Hannibal’s waiting palm as he feels the man empty himself, as well, into Will in thick, hot pushes. He feels entirely claimed, debauched, blasphemous as a little demon could, with his list of sins and his pride in them.

Will shudders as Hannibal kisses his neck, back up between his shoulders and sits up to regard the beautifully bent young thing on his knees for him.

Bringing his hand to his lips, Hannibal drinks in the scent of his boy on them, dripping sticky between his fingers. With a passing thought to the promised cot that never came, Hannibal hums quiet amusement before drawing his tongue along his hand, to lap up Will’s release from his skin and let the familiar taste of it settle salty across his lips.

Only when he softens does Hannibal slip out from inside his boy, and let himself settle with a heavy sigh, sated, beside him in the bed. He snares Will around the waist, sensing his devious grin without needing to see it.

“What am I to do with such a sinful boy,” Hannibal murmurs fondly, brushing a kiss against the back of Will’s neck, burying his nose in the boy’s soft hair.

Will wriggles, delighted, still mostly bared as his boxers cling to his legs, press just across the soft skin of his bottom where he sits.

“Let me shower,” he suggests, “and join you in bed. Perhaps I can atone for more sins then.”

A bright grin and Will leans back enough so he can see Hannibal upside down, closing his eyes in childish pleasure as the man kisses his forehead and allows him to get off the bed unhindered. Will winces, despite the constant and prolonged abuse, still finding himself sensitive when fucked so thoroughly. He draws a hand through his hair and makes his way to the bathroom where the light still shines, illuminating the entire room.

He does not close the door.

By the time he crawls into bed again, he is warm, skin damp and hair the same, and he nuzzles under Hannibal’s chin like a cat, sleepy and sated.

“You would be a wicked temptation as a Father,” Will informs him, grinning.

Settled nearly into sleep already, Hannibal’s smile widens, genuinely pleased by the praise and the affection that accompanies it. “And you the torment of any priest, no matter how stalwart in their faith,” Hannibal assures him.

He spreads his hand and with long strokes, rubs Will’s back until the shivers of cold and delight ease and he begins to settle, wrapped so near against the older man. Only when there is a little sigh of sleep does Hannibal sit up just enough to find the blankets skewed by their fervor, but as he reaches for it to drag it across their bare bodies, he stops.

There is curious movement through the window, a flickering of light that disrupts the stars spread in countless number that were there before. Even Hannibal, as he so rarely is, finds himself surprised for a moment, eyes unable to focus on the flickers of green and violet that spark and simmer across the sky.

Only a moment, though, before he feels a sudden rush of genuine awe quicken his heart, and grasps Will gently by the arm.

“Will,” Hannibal breathes, shaking him lightly as the boy makes another sleepy noise. “Will, come.”

Without hesitating more, Hannibal is out of bed, shorts tugged around his hips, and he throws the blanket over Will before scooping the little thing into his arms, to make his way towards the arched glass door overlooking the garden.

Will wriggles to wakefulness, groggy and displeased despite the strong arms around him. Then he is set down, his toes warm against the cold stone floor.

“Will, look.”

And he does, through the window at the way the sky splays tendrils of color across itself, shifting and moving like silk in water. Will’s eyes widen, his breath taken short as he quickly turns the key holding the door to their tiny balcony closed and runs into the snow barefoot, blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape as he stares at the sky.

“It’s the northern lights,” Will breathes, his breath curling in the air before him, turning to Hannibal with wide eyes and a bright smile so genuine he looks younger, the child he still genuinely is. “Hannibal, it’s the northern lights!”

He is almost vibrating with joy, bouncing on the balls of his feet in the snow whose cold he does not feel, hands curled in the blanket as he tilts his head to the sky and watches, utterly enthralled.

Though a quick glance is spared to the other balconies around them - and Hannibal is relieved to see that it’s late enough that no others have joined them outside - he is in truth nearly unable to watch the dancing light across the sky. He is, in truth, unable to think of a more beautiful display than Will as he is now, overcome with joy and fascination, lips parted in awe as he keeps his wide eyes up towards the sky.

Assured that they are alone, Hannibal rests an arm across Will’s chest, hand settling on his shoulder and bodies pressed warmly together. He rests his cheek against his boy’s cold curls of hair as the sky colors luminous above them, huffing a laugh that plumes grey into the air as Will rises onto his toes again, as if he could somehow join the aurora that has so entranced him. Skimming Will’s warm cheek with the back of his fingers, Hannibal smiles, and murmurs softly.

“Happy Christmas, little wolf.”


End file.
